A Miracle That I Asked For
by azkabcn
Summary: Mycroft Holmes is dead. He was killed in a car crash. When Sherlock 'deletes' his Mind Palace due to emotion overdrive, he has a mad urge to go and visit Mycroft to get rid of the torture of the pain of his loss. It's up to John to remind him that they can get through this. Together. AU one-shot. Post TEH.


Bleep! _A text. Tearing his eyes off the TV, Sherlock reached for his phone sitting on the table at arm's length away. He opened up the text._

 **Meet me and John at Barts. Urgent. - GL**

 _Sherlock looked puzzled. Lestrade never texted him. Ever. It was always conversation over the phone or face-to-face._

 _But he tried not let that faze him. He knew it was urgent - as Lestrade said it was. So after slipping on his long coat and scarf, he swiftly walked out of the flat and hailed a cab._

" _St Bartholemew's, please," he ordered, settling in the back._

 _The driver drove along at a leisurely pace and Sherlock found himself growing more and more impatient. "Faster, please. It's urgent."_

 _The driver growled, but obliged._

 _Finally, Sherlock reached Barts. He flung open the door of the cab, paid the driver, and walked up to the door. There, he saw John, but there was something wrong. John didn't smile as he usually did. His eyes didn't shine as they normally would. "John? Are you OK?" he asked as he walked up the steps, his hands in the pockets of his jacket._

 _John didn't reply. He just pulled open the door, and ushered Sherlock in._

 _He passed Anderson, who smiled sympathetically._ Weird, _Sherlock thought. Anderson was hardly sympathetic with him. Then Sergeant Donovan stopped them. "Afternoon, Sherlock," she greeted, nodding at him._

 _He nodded back brusquely. When they passed her, he raised an eyebrow. Donovan's nickname for him was always 'freak'. What happened to that?_

 _John had gone on while he was thinking. He caught up and hissed, "John," as they walked up to Lestrade's office._

 _John stopped before pulling the door open. He turned to face the detective. His eyes showed pain, misery. Sherlock had a horrible feeling something was about to go wrong._

" _Oh, Sherlock," he breathed. Suddenly, he lunged forward to give Sherlock a hug. Sherlock found himself unusually tingling at the touch as he hugged his friend back. He knew he desired the man in a romantic sense, but the tingling was new. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry," John whispered._

 _Sherlock held John away from him. "What's going on, John? Anderson's being sympathetic, Donovan doesn't call me freak, you're saying sorry, what's Lestrade going to do?"_

 _John sighed, his shoulders visibly slumping. He looked like he was fighting tears. "You'll... you'll see," he said, swallowing hard._

 _Sherlock gave John his once-over._ Slumped shoulders, indicates defeat, or maybe hurt. Pupils contracted: fright, or hurt again. Tousled brown hair, he'd been running his fingers through it. Symbolises unease. Clenching and un clenching of fists: angry, sad. _Everything was negative._

" _John," Sherlock asked. "What's happened? Why is everyone acting strange?"_

 _Again, John swallowed. "It's... It's Mycroft..." he whispered._

 _And Sherlock was gone. He yanked open the office door and demanded to know where his brother was. Lestrade showed him to the morgue and walked him to the back, the Detective Inspector staying eerily silent and Sherlock trying to get him to spill the beans._

 _Molly stood at the head of a corpse, her eyes glazed with tears. Sherlock and Lestrade stood at the side. The detective already had a terrible pain in the pit of his stomach. John came up beside him, and reached out for his hand. It always seemed like John liked him back._

 _With a whisper of "I'm sorry, Sherlock," Molly took away the cloth from the face of the body._

 _Staring at him were Mycroft's pale face and closed eyes. Sherlock's mouth fell open. He took in his brother's face, and immediately tears sprang to his eyes. He closed his eyes, trying not to cry and not to look at Mycroft at the same time._

 _He felt a hand squeeze his own and he looked down to see John's fingers entwined with his. He met John's eyes and tried to smile at him for his understanding, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. His lip quivered and he looked at Mycroft._

 _He realised now exactly how much he cared for Mycroft; exactly how much his older brother actually meant to him. But it was too late. Mycroft was dead, and this time it_ wasn't _fake. One of the Holmes brothers really_ was _gone._

" _Cry," he heard a whisper. He looked away from Mycroft to see Lestrade, eyes full of pain and sorrow. The inspector's hand laid on his shoulder._

 _Finally, he let himself go, he let the tears run free. They streamed down his cheeks, creating pools of wetness on the pearl white sheets beneath him. He let go of John's hand and knelt beside his deceased brother._

" _Mycroft," he whispered. "My dear brother... you can't... you can't... leave me. I need you... more than you could ever imagine. I-I hardly show it... but... I do." Sherlock's words came out as choked sobs. "I really,_ really _do."_

 _His cries took him over and for a second he was silenced as fresh tears fell. John knelt beside him and snaked an arm round his shoulders. He leant his head on John's shoulder, crying softly._

 _When the tears no longer fell, he detached himself from John and took Mycroft's hand._ _"I know it's far too late to say this, brother dear," he whispered. "But... I love you, in a familial way, more than words can describe."_

 _He looked up at Lestrade and Molly, the latter of which was in tears. He uttered one word,_ _"How?"_

 _Lestrade swallowed, his Adam's Apple bobbing up and down. "His car... crashed into the back a lorry. He lost control of the brakes and couldn't... couldn't slow himself at the... at the red light. In his defence though, the lorry driver decided to... to reverse at the wrong time. I... honestly... I just can't believe it."_

" _Neither can I, Lestrade. Neither can I..." Sherlock whispered._

 _And then he cried once more._

 _xxx_

"Sherlock?" came a call.

Sherlock opened his eyes to see a blurred John staring at him. It took him a second to realise he'd been crying. He wiped his eyes and looked at John, who was crouched in front of him.

"Guess you didn't find what you were looking for, huh?" John asked, standing up.

Sherlock rested his arm on the arm of his chair and rested his chin on his fingers. "Not exactly," he replied.

He had gone into his Mind Palace to find something on the case they were looking at, but he'd been taken straight to the place where he learned that his brother was dead.

That's all he could see now in his Mind Palace. He'd go in there and be met with Mycroft's dead face.

"Why is this happening, John? Why can I only see Mycroft? And when he's dead too! I thought I was prone to emotions!" he said firmly, brow furrowed in anger.

"It's a traumatic situation, Sherlock. It's perfectly normal."

Sherlock stood up abruptly, his eyes flashing dangerously. " _BUT I'M NOT NORMAL_!" he yelled.

John walked up to him, perfectly calm, and placed his hands on Sherlock's upper arms. "Hey," he whispered. "It's OK. I'm right here. Calm down."

John knew that Sherlock always needed him there when he got angry. He knew the detective didn't like to be alone when he was calming down.

Sherlock took deep breaths as he pondered John's words. And then, almost automatically, his hands rested on his boyfriend's shoulders. He leaned in, their faces just an inch apart. "You know why I love you?"

"Why?" John asked, his mouth twisting up into a smirk.

"Because you're always _there_ ," Sherlock whispered.

John smiled and closed the space between them and brought his lips to Sherlock's.

Sherlock's eyelids fell shut. He felt his heartbeat speed up as his hands wrapped around John's neck. His heart felt like it was on fire. He felt the curls of his hair being pulled. He moaned, feeling the anger and hatred melted away at John's touch.

Eventually, they pulled away from each other, smiling brightly. Sherlock reached for the older man again and rested his forehead against his. "I love you, John Watson," he whispered.

John smiled. "I love you, too, Sherlock Holmes."

"Four months. It's been four months, John," Sherlock said as they broke contact.

"I know." John looked at Sherlock, his face painless. "Four months of utter bliss."

It had been six months since Mycroft's death. Sherlock found that he was unable to concentrate on cases, his mind going back to Mycroft. John had felt their relationship would take Sherlock's mind off his brother, so two months later, he asked the detective on a date.

Sherlock did find himself distracted from his brother's very untimely demise, most of the time. It was only his Mind Palace that betrayed him.

"OK, let's try this again," Sherlock muttered to himself. He held his hands in front of him and closed his eyes. And immediately he found himself reaching out for his phone after Lestrade texted him.

He opened his eyes again and growled. "Why? Why always that scene? Why? Have I not _got_ a Mind Palace anymore?" Then he realised something. "I never see it when I'm about to sleep, so I've somehow corrupted my Mind Palace. I've deleted everything except Mycroft's death. How did I do that?"

John listened as Sherlock tried to come to terms with the 'delete' of everything except his brother's death. He felt disheartened that Sherlock had deleted him as well, but knew very well that this was not the time to bring it up.

"Ah," Sherlock said as he realised what had happened. "I see."

"What?" John asked.

"Emotion overdrive. Too much emotion. My mind couldn't deal with it, so it malfunctioned. And in the process, everything was deleted." Sherlock went over to the window.

"Explain 'emotion overdrive'," John asked, cautiously.

"Pain from losing Mycroft," Sherlock explained, wincing slightly. "Screw that, it's not even pain. It's pure torture. And my love for you. Which I don't want to let go of."

"Can... you get it back?" John asked, joining Sherlock by the window. "Your Mind Palace, I mean?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't know how," he sighed. "I wish I hadn't denied him the offer."

John looked confused. "Denied who the offer for what?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock stated. "He offered to tell me how to revive my Mind Palace if I ever came to lose it. I didn't think I could lose the contents of my brain, so I told him it was stupid."

"Look, tell me how your Mind Palace works," John said.

"Well. Each specific memory is given a 'room'. Anything related to that memory is connected to it. People that I want to remember especially are placed into a room associated with their work, or house. I put you into 221b Baker Street along with Mrs Hudson, but I've somehow deleted you both." Sherlock caught John staring at him. "I'm sorry, John."

John shook his head. "Don't be. I'm standing right beside you. I'm not going anywhere." John reached for Sherlock's hand and wrapped his fingers around it. "You may have deleted me from your Mind Palace but you can't delete me from your life. Everything you go through, I go through too. Understood?"

Sherlock hugged John, whispering, "Understood."

xxx

Sherlock awoke in the night, his arms around John. He thought about how he'd lost his Mind Palace. Obviously, he could still think but the thoughts in his head were jumbled around, unsorted and fuzzy. How could he live like that? Some consulting detective he'd turn out to be. Suddenly, he knew how to get rid of that 'I'm useless' feeling.

He knew how to get back to Mycroft.

Slowly, he tried to move off the bed without waking the sleeping man, but was unsuccessful.

"Sherlock?" John whispered sleepily. "Where are you going?"

Sherlock didn't look back at him as he put on a shirt and his coat. He didn't respond.

"Sherlock?"

"Going to visit Mycroft," he explained simply while walking to the chest of drawers.

For a second, John thought Sherlock was going to go to Mycroft's grave, but when he saw Sherlock pull out a gun-shaped object from the top drawer, he flung out of bed and up to Sherlock.

"No, you don't, Sherlock," he told the younger male, covering the gun with his hand.

"I'm sorry, John. I really am. But I need to do this. Go back to bed, please," Sherlock pleaded. But John shook his head.

"No. I can't lose you again. Last time I lost you for two years. This time I'll lose you forever. And it's not happening."

John let go of Sherlock's hand for a second and the detective took the hint to bolt for the door.

"Sherlock!" John called.

But Sherlock wasn't listening. He ran down the stairs, opened the front door and was out on the streets. He wasn't aware that John had followed him.

He ran all the way up to a field by Baker Street, the lush green grass darkened by the black of the night and the dread of the situation.

He stopped, took deep breaths to get his breath back, and put the gun in his mouth. As he was about to pull the trigger, he heard a shout.

"NOOO! SHERLOCK!" John had caught him up.

Sherlock sighed, bring the gun out. He'd been so close to seeing Mycroft again. He'd blown his second chance.

John inched closer to Sherlock, trying to keep his boyfriend calm. "Sherlock, listen."

Sherlock looked up, the gun still in his grip.

"Remember, two years ago, when you 'died' the first time," John said softly, quietly. "I asked you for a miracle. I asked you to stop being dead. You heard me. But I won't be able to do that if you're really gone.

"Technically, you're the miracle that I asked for, and I'll be dammed if I let you go." John extended his hand and took the gun from Sherlock. "Remember what I said. We'll go through everything - together. You've lost your Mind Palace and I'll do anything I can to help you get it back."

John reached out and pulled Sherlock towards him. They stood there in the other's embrace for a while before John felt something seep through the shoulder of his shirt. He realised that Sherlock was crying.

He held the detective at arm's length and whispered, "Hey. What's wrong?"

Sherlock swallowed before saying, "I need _Mycroft_ if I'm to ever get my Mind Palace back. I need Mycroft if I want to stop feeling tortured by his death. But most of all, I need you, John Watson, to love me and to care for me like you've always done, and I can't bear to think that I was going to lose you _on purpose_."

John shook his head fondly. "I love you, Sherlock. Don't you ever forget that."

"I love you, too, John."

They hugged each other again, the negative vibe in the air vanishing.


End file.
